Larissa didn't speak to Lukyan on the ride home.
She sat perfectly still, her eyes trained on the city lights flashing by, pretending she didn't feel his gaze on her every few minutes. His silence was heavier than usual—not distant or cold, but watchful. As if he was waiting for something.
Or someone.
"You're angry," he finally said.
She didn't look at him. "I'm tired."
He didn't respond.
The car rolled to a stop outside their estate. Larissa reached for the door, but Lukyan was faster. He was already outside, already opening it for her, his hand outstretched.
She hesitated. She had never needed his help before. But tonight, the exhaustion seeped deep into her bones, and she hated how comforting his strength looked in that moment.
Still, she stood on her own.
The house was quiet when they entered. The children were already asleep, the lights dimmed, the air soft with the scent of lavender from the diffuser Alina's nanny always ran in the evenings.
Larissa made a beeline for the stairs.
"Larissa," Lukyan said, voice quiet.
She stopped mid-step.
"You're running again."
She exhaled slowly, gripping the stair rail. "I'm trying to survive this marriage, Lukyan. Isn't that what we agreed on from the start?"
"No," he said. "That was your agreement."
She turned to face him. "Don't do this."
"Do what?"
"Act like you didn't sign that contract just as coldly as I did. Like you didn't treat this entire marriage like a transaction."
His jaw tightened. "That was before I knew what it was like to live without you."
Her chest pulled tight.
"You've never lived without me."
He took a step closer. "Exactly. And the thought of it—" He broke off, hands clenching at his sides.
She shook her head, a bitter laugh escaping her. "This isn't love, Lukyan. It's fear. You don't want to lose what's convenient."
His eyes darkened. "You think you are convenient to me?"
"I gave you heirs. I kept your image perfect. I stayed out of your way. I was the perfect wife on paper—just like you asked."
"But that was never what I needed from you."
She blinked. "Then what did you need?"
His voice lowered. "You."
The word hung in the air, sharp and raw.
"I don't know how to give you that," she whispered.
He moved slowly this time, walking up the stairs to meet her at eye level. He didn't touch her. Just stood there, inches away, the space between them charged with years of silence, of almosts, of everything unsaid.
"Then let me teach you," he said softly.
Larissa couldn't breathe.
She turned away, fleeing into the dark hallway, into the safety of her room.
She didn't close the door behind her—but Lukyan didn't follow.
And somehow, that was worse.
The next morning, Larissa found herself staring at her reflection in the mirror far longer than usual. Her eyes were tired. Her skin pale. But it wasn't just exhaustion. It was something deeper. Something aching.
She had spent eight years telling herself she didn't care.
Now?
She wasn't so sure.
She walked downstairs to find breakfast already laid out. The kids were at the table, chatting in half-English, half-Russian. Alina beamed at her and raised syrup-covered hands like a greeting.
Larissa smiled and kissed each of their heads.
Then she saw Lukyan.
He wasn't at the head of the table like usual.
He was in the kitchen—wearing an apron.
She froze.
"Papa made pancakes!" Roman shouted. "He didn't even burn them this time!"
Lukyan looked up, flipping another pancake with ease. "A miracle," he said dryly.
Larissa raised an eyebrow. "You cook now?"
"I adapt," he said, placing a plate in front of her. "You needed rest."
"And you decided to become domestic?"
He leaned in, voice low. "I decided to make it harder for you to leave."
She stared at him.
This man. This cold, brilliant, strategic man—was making pancakes. For her. For their kids.
And she hated how much it made her heart twist.
After breakfast, she escaped to her garden.
It was her sanctuary—the one place in this house untouched by the contract, by Lukyan, by obligations. She kept roses there. Lavender. Night-blooming jasmine.
She didn't expect Lukyan to follow.
But he did.
He said nothing at first. Just sat on the bench near the path, watching her.
"You're crowding my space," she said without looking at him.
He didn't move. "You used to smile when you gardened."
She paused.
"You noticed that?"
"I've always noticed you."
Her fingers tightened around the shears.
He stood and walked over, stopping just behind her. "You think I don't regret the way I started this marriage?"
"I think you liked the distance," she said quietly. "It gave you control."
"I was afraid of you."
She turned, startled. "What?"
"You made me feel something I didn't know how to name. So I locked you in a box and labeled it contract. But it was never that simple."
She stared at him, eyes burning.
"You don't get to say these things now, Lukyan."
"I know," he said. "But I will anyway."